


Tagged

by areyoumiserableyet



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Established Relationship, Graffiti, M/M, Reconciliation, Tagger!Grantaire, Unhealthy Relationships
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-31
Updated: 2020-07-31
Packaged: 2021-03-05 20:40:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,245
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25621498
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/areyoumiserableyet/pseuds/areyoumiserableyet
Summary: Grantaire is a tagger. Enjolras is heartbroken.Inspired by thistweet
Relationships: Enjolras/Grantaire (Les Misérables)
Comments: 21
Kudos: 51





	Tagged

Thursday

Enjolras is waiting for the 5 train when he sees it. 

“It” being a large, green _R_ graffitied on the tiled wall of the station at Union Square, directly in Enjolras’s line of sight.

For a moment, he looks around the platform nonsensically, unsure who or what for, until his gaze settles back on the familiar tag. His heart is pounding wildly in his chest, but Enjolras takes great care to disguise this fact by gritting his teeth and keeping his face as stoic as possible.

It’s ridiculous, he knows, to have such a reaction to some graffiti - even if it is Grantaire’s, who’s tagged nearly every inch of New York City at this point. In fact, he’s become somewhat accustomed, really, to seeing the name of the boy who broke his heart scrawled all over town. There’s one in the alley next to the Starbucks on Court St. that acts as a shortcut between Combeferre’s apartment and the nearest bus stop. One of Grantaire’s tags adorns the newsstand in front of Enjolras’s favorite ice cream shop, and when he waits for Bahorel to arrive for their biweekly double-scoop, he swears he barely looks at it. There’s even one in the stairwell of his (their?) apartment building, just at the landing of the 5th floor. So, all things considered, Enjolras isn’t particularly affected by that familiar green letter, at least not anymore. 

It’s just that, this tag is new. 

Which really shouldn’t be possible given that Grantaire packed his things and moved halfway around the world nearly three months ago.

Enjolras doesn’t know how long he stands there, staring at his (ex?) boyfriend’s name, but it was apparently enough time for his train to come and go without him. He suddenly feels incredibly tired, so he leaves the station and orders an Uber instead of trying to figure out a new route home. As he waits, Enjolras thinks - not for the first time - about the last time he'd seen Grantaire.

He doesn’t even remember what had started the argument, only remembers the outcome - the angry, cutting words hurled back and forth, much too loud in their tiny walkup. It had ended with a slammed door, Enjolras trembling in its wake, and then - silence.

It’s been so, so quiet ever since.

When Enjolras gets home some twenty minutes later, the first thing he does is take a very long, very hot shower. After that, he sits on the couch with a glass of wine and stares at his phone for longer than is probably healthy. 

At first, he thinks about calling someone. Combeferre, maybe, or even Eponine. He doesn’t. Instead, he pulls up the last text conversation between him and Grantaire. (Although, he supposes it can’t really be called a conversation if Enjolras was the only one saying anything.)

_Grantaire, please answer the phone._

_Grantaire?_

_R? Hello?_

_Are you really going to do this to me?_

_This is such bullshit, R._

_Grantaire_

_Babe please..._

_R_

_R_

_God, I hate you sometimes._

_I’m sorry._

_I still love you._

_Come home._

There’s more, but Enjolras forces himself to stop reading. He types out no fewer than six messages to Grantaire, sends none of them, and goes to bed. 

Friday

Enjolras wakes up the next morning and almost forgets about the new tag. That is, until he steps outside onto his balcony with his morning coffee only to find yet another green _R_ spray painted on the sign boasting the newest construction project across the street. It wasn’t there yesterday.

Enjolras wonders, briefly, if someone is playing a cruel trick on him. But the only people who could possibly know what Grantaire’s tag looks like _and_ know things like the view from Enjolras’s balcony or his daily commute are his friends. They, at least, would never do something like this.

Which really only leaves one explanation, but Enjolras has half a mind to simply pretend this isn’t happening. Because for Grantaire to be back in New York and leaving tags where he knows Enjolras will see them, that means that...well, that means a whole slew of things Enjolras can’t even begin to name. 

He stares at the tag while he finishes his coffee, his mind running over every possible scenario that could result from the sudden reappearance of this worrisome graffiti. Once he’s drained his mug, Enjolras retreats inside to get dressed, his mind never straying far from that tag and the boy who must have put it there.

He leaves for class, and his legs cross the street before he realizes it, his body instinctively leading him to the graffiti instead of his bus stop in the opposite direction. Up close, the green _R_ is a little shiny, and when Enjolras reaches out to press the tip of his finger against it, it’s still tacky. It couldn’t have been tagged more than half an hour ago. 

For the second time in as many days, Enjolras looks around himself, the eerie feeling of being watched creeping up his spine.

He straightens up, gripping the straps of his canvas backpack, and stalks off toward the bus stop before he can let himself think about it too deeply. 

Enjolras is heading into the library when he hears it - a metallic rattle followed by the all-too familiar hissing sound that comes from compressed air. The beat of his silly heart is like a drum in his ears, and he turns the corner quickly, fully expecting to see-

“Gavroche?”

The boy in question jumps slightly at the intrusion, turning to face Enjolras with a guilty grin. He’s holding a can of spray paint in each hand, the drips at the nozzle telling Enjolras one of them is full of yellow paint, the other purple. He’d been tagging his name in a complicated crisscross font, using both colors to spell it out. “Hey Enjolras! What are you doing here?” Gavroche asks. 

“That’s the university library you’re decorating there,” Enjolras replies, amused. “The better question is what are _you_ doing here?”

“I-”

“Gav!” Both Enjolras and Gavroche turn at the sound of his name to see Eponine stalking toward them. Gavroche drops the cans. “Oh, hey Enj.” 

“Hey Ep,” he replies, nodding at his friend.

“I can’t leave you alone for a second, can I?” she says then, directing this to her little brother. “What have I told you about graffiti?”

Enjolras's heart sinks as he watches the 12-year-old deflate in front of him. “It’s a sick tag, though,” Enjolras amends, holding his fist out. Gavroche looks up at him with a grin and bumps his fist against Enjolras’s. “Taire would be proud.”

“He’s right,” Eponine says, smiling despite herself. “You should send R a picture.”

Enjolras stands next to Eponine as she forces Gavroche to pose next to the graffiti, the boy doing something with his hands that Enjolras is certainly too old to understand the meaning of.

“Would you tell me? If he was back, would you tell me?” he asks, keeping his eyes straight ahead. He feels her turn and look at him. 

“Probably not,” Eponine says honestly, and it startles a laugh from Enjolras. He turns to meet her gaze and she says, “But he isn’t. At least not that I know of.”

“Who would he tell if not you?” Enjolras asks.

“Why? Do you think he’s back?” she asks without answering his question. When Enjolras doesn’t reply, she sighs. “Only person he’d tell before me is you.” 

Saturday

“I think Grantaire is back,” Enjolras says. He’s met with silence and when he looks up from his coffee, both Combeferre and Courfeyrac are staring at him with wide eyes. 

“What do you mean _you think_?” Combeferre asks, his brow furrowed. 

“I’m pretty sure I’ve seen new tags,” Enjolras says. 

“Pretty sure?”

“I’m sure.”

“Could they be copycats?” Courfeyrac asks. 

“I suppose, but they seem like they’re…” Enjolras pauses, knowing he’s about to sound ridiculous. “They seem like they’re for me.” 

“What makes you say that?” Combeferre asks. He does a good job at acting like this is a normal conversation.

“They’ve all been places I would see them,” he says, shrugging and trying to appear casual. Combeferre and Courfeyrac exchange a silent glance and Enjolras huffs, saying, “Look I’m aware how this sounds but there was one on my route home and one outside my-”

“Enj…” Combeferre interrupts, gently. 

“What?” 

“Do you think maybe...it’s just wishful thinking?”

Enjolras opens his mouth to argue, but closes it again. “Forget it,” he says then, and he doesn’t think he sounds rude, but perhaps a little exhausted. He gets up from the table then, and both Combeferre and Courfeyrac jump in to protest his departure. “It’s fine, guys,” Enjolras assures, Combeferre frozen where he’s half out of his seat. “Really, I just...I just want to get home. I’ll see you later.”

Combeferre sits back down at that, exchanging a worried look with Courfeyrac, and Enjolras takes the opportunity to slip away before they could say anything more.

Outside, the night air is chilly, but Enjolras simply pulls his coat tighter around himself and walks home anyway. He needs the air, needs to clear his head. Maybe Courfeyrac and Combeferre were right, he thinks. Maybe he’s really losing it this time. 

That night, he wakes up in a sweat, and he can practically smell Grantaire around him, feels like he’s suffocating in his grip, and when he slides a hand into his underwear, he’s rock hard. 

He’d been dreaming of large hands wrapped around the most delicate parts of him, digging into his flesh, paying no heed to the marks being left behind. These hands didn’t touch him like he was made of glass - they held him like he was _real_ , warm and fallible and _breakable_ , and like they wanted him to know it. Like they never wanted him to forget it.

 _It’s okay if you hurt me,_ he wanted to say. _It’s okay if it’s you._

And those hands would wrap around his wrists, his throat, and they’d say, _I want you to feel me tomorrow,_ and Enjolras would - inside and out.

_Inside and out._

  
  


Sunday

Enjolras wakes up earlier than usual that morning, and after trying and failing to fall back asleep, he kicks off the blankets and goes for his run, leaving a whole forty-five minutes earlier than he normally does. 

He adjusts his route to accommodate this, not wanting to arrive at the Musain for his coffee before they open. Enjolras was grateful for the extra time, actually. Running was one of the only things that helped quiet some of the noise in his head, something about the steady feeling of the earth under his feet, always there, always catching each step, remaining solid under him for his next. It grounded him, reminded him - in a way - of his own smallness whenever his tiny human feelings suddenly felt so terribly big.

His heart was betraying him today, though. It was listening to the songs playing through his headphones, twisting the words into melancholy metaphors for his own life. It’s easy, he supposes, to find heartbreak when you’re looking for it. 

Still, it’s comforting to know someone else has felt this awful ache and survived.

He’s sweating and flushed by the time he makes it to the Musain, slowing to a jog as he rounds the corner. Enjolras almost doesn’t see him. 

He’s looking at his watch, trying to see how many miles he’d ran, when he sees movement out of the corner of his eye. He pulls out his headphones and turns, his pulse a loud, distracting thing in his head, to face the alley next to the Musain. It’s empty. 

Feeling like a fucking idiot, he jogs down the alley and pokes his head around the other side of the building, but there’s no one there. Just when Enjolras thinks he’s officially lost his mind, he notices something he’d missed before, in his adrenaline-fueled focus. 

The beginning of a message, spray painted in fresh, still-dripping green letters. _I’m so fucking sor_

Under them, the abandoned can. 

Enjolras doesn’t know what makes him do it. Blind rage maybe, or from a place of white hot pain, shameful and ugly. He picks up the spray paint and next to this ridiculous, infuriating apology, Enjolras writes, _COWARD_

He throws the can down with satisfying force and runs back home without coffee.

  
  


Monday

It’s late when he finally knocks. 

Enjolras knows it’s him - _who else would it be?_ \- but it’s still a shock to his system when he opens the door to that face. Because _god,_ he looks weary and nervous and so, _so_ beautiful. He smells like spray paint, and Enjolras has to touch him. 

He throws his arms around Grantaire and pulls him as close as he can, wishing he could crawl inside him and also tear him apart, limb from limb. 

Having Grantaire here again, after all this time, feels surreal and almost sacred, and he hadn’t realized how much of himself had been paralyzed in fear from the weeks and weeks of radio silence. It’s a little overwhelming - to see him, and feel him, and smell him, and hear him when he says, so soft, _Enjolras._

And - _fuck_ \- every part of him is still everything Enjolras wants.

Finally, after ages that were probably only moments, Enjolras pulls back from the embrace, looks at Grantaire for a few, slow breaths, and shuts the door in his face.

**Author's Note:**

> Okay friends, this is a little different than my usual stuff so please comment and let me know what you think!  
> You'll be getting the second part of this from Grantaire's POV whenever it is that I write it ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯


End file.
